Kings of the Wyld (The Band #1)

Clay fumbled for words. “I … I’m—”

“Sorry?” Ganelon turned on him. “Well, don’t be. Being sorry don’t change anything.”

“You must have hated us,” Clay reasoned. You must hate us still, he left unsaid.

Ganelon shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. For a while.”

“A while?”

Finally Ganelon stopped. “Yeah, like, ten years or so. I hated Matrick for wanting to settle down with that brat princess. I hated Moog for wasting time trying to cure the rot instead of spending time with the one person he was trying to save. You know what the cure for the rot is, by the way? Don’t fucking come here. Ever. I hated Gabe for buying into that monster-love bullshit Valery was spouting all the time, and I—actually, you know what? I never hated you, Slowhand.”

Clay swallowed. “No?”

“No. But I did wonder where you’d gotten to, why you weren’t there when the Sultana’s men came for me. I’ve had less friends in this world than I have fingers, but I counted you among them. You’re honest, and brave, and too damn loyal for your own good. Hell, you’re just about the best man I’ve ever known, and so I thought: What kind of monster must I be, that even Clay Cooper gave up on me?”

Clay gaped, speechless. He cast his eyes to the blackened earth, overcome by shame and sweeping guilt. I was tired, he might have said. Tired of fighting, of killing. Tired of Kallorek’s greed, and Matty’s drinking, and Moog’s antics, and Gabriel’s insufferable pride. I wanted to wash my hands clean of it all. And also: I thought you deserved it. You killed a prince, and a lot of innocent men besides. And after ten years of trying to make the world a safer place, I thought it would be safer without you.

He might have said all of this, but instead he said nothing.

“Never mind.” Ganelon stalked off, with Clay plodding sullenly behind. Before long they heard a dull roar overhead and concealed themselves beneath the eaves of hoary trees as the Dark Star sailed past.

Larkspur’s thralls were peering over the rail in hope of spotting their fallen mistress. Clay caught himself thinking they were looking in vain. He’d seen her fall, struck by lightning—but he’d seen Matrick fall, too, and yet here he was traipsing through the Heartwyld in search of his friend’s corpse.

He had a vague memory of sitting at his kitchen table not so very long ago, telling Gabriel there was no way he was going to Castia and no chance he would set foot in this awful forest ever again. But then a half-asleep nine-year-old girl had asked him a single question and convinced him otherwise …

Moments later they heard a woman cry out in pain. The sound had come from a thick copse of trees up ahead, and by the time Clay took three steps Ganelon had crashed through the brush and disappeared altogether. When Clay finally fought through the tangled branches and stumbled into the clearing beyond, he saw the southerner facing down a scrawny troll in a lumpy hat who’d been crouching over Matrick and Larkspur—both of whom, he noted, were very much alive.

“Wait!” cried Matrick.

The troll raised a hand in what Clay belatedly realized was a friendly greeting. Ganelon, however, realized no such thing, and so hacked the creature’s arm off at the shoulder. The troll toppled backward. Matrick threw himself between it and Ganelon, who was already hefting his axe for another swing.

“Wait! Stop! He’s with us!”

Ganelon froze. “He’s … wait, what?”

Matrick had scarcely opened his mouth to explain when Moog exploded into the clearing brandishing an alchemical globe and howling, “Kill it with fire!”

“No!” Matrick shouted, once again putting himself in harm’s way. “Don’t kill him with anything! Guys, this is Taino. He’s helping us. He’s a doctor.”

“Wheechdoktor,” corrected the troll, seemingly unconcerned that Ganelon had just dismembered him. The wound hardly bled at all, and thanks to the regenerative nature of trolls the limb would likely grow back within the hour. He stood, brushing dirt from his behind with his remaining hand, then straightened his lumpy hat and clapped Matrick on the shoulder as if the two were old friends. “Me was jus makin sure your frens here were irie. He an she took a long bad fall, ya know.”

Gabriel, who had trailed the wizard into the clearing, motioned for Ganelon to stow his axe. “We know,” he said. “Matty, are you okay?”

Aside from a few scratches on the side of his face, Matrick looked better now than when they’d found him sitting on the rocks below the Teeth of Adragos after his bogus funeral. He spread his hands and chuckled. “Somehow, yeah.” He jabbed a thumb toward the daeva. “She sort of flew most of the way down. I just hung on for dear life.”

The troll flashed a brown-toothed grin. “Ay, dis one’s proper fine. He’s an ironmon, no doubt!” He waved his hand at Larkspur, who was sitting with her legs splayed and her head lolling on her chest. “Dis one ain’t so lucky. She done took a fierce knock to da head, an she’s gotta busted wing, see?”

Clay did see. Larkspur’s right wing was folded behind her, but the other jutted crookedly beyond her left shoulder. He looked around for her swords and was grateful when he didn’t spot them anywhere nearby.

Matrick cleared his throat. “Oh, yeah, regarding that knock to the head …”

He fell quiet as Larkspur stirred, blinking groggily. She looked around at each of them before her gaze settled on Ganelon. “Hi,” she said brightly, and to Clay’s amazement her smile bore no trace of malevolence whatsoever. “I’m Sabbatha.”





Chapter Thirty-two

Drums and Drugs and Dreams

“Who the frigid hell is Sabbatha?” Clay asked it quietly enough that Larkspur, walking behind them with Ganelon, Gabriel, and Moog, wouldn’t hear him. The witchdoctor Taino, who had offered his home as a refuge to wait out the perilous night, loped a few steps ahead, humming quietly to himself.

Matrick glanced over his shoulder before leaning in to whisper, “Kit said it used to be her name, remember? Before she became a bounty hunter and all that. She came to for a bit earlier, and she was … well, she wasn’t … Listen, I have no idea what happened to her. She broke more than just her wing, I think.” He rapped on his skull. “She’s crazy.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope she stays that way.” Clay glanced over his shoulder. Despite her injuries the daeva was smiling and chatting amicably with Moog. She laughed at something the wizard said and Clay felt his gut turn a somersault, which meant her powers of attraction remained intact.

For the meantime, they’d sated her curiosity by telling her The Carnal Court was her ship, and that they’d hired her in Conthas to take them over the Heartwyld, to Castia. Thankfully, she’d believed it.

“Clay?”

“What?”

“Do you think?”

Better than I listen, apparently. “Do I think what?” he asked.

“That maybe she’s like this for good? Maybe that bump on the head sort of … I don’t know … knocked the evil out of her.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Clay.

Matrick rubbed at his jowls. “Okay, yeah. Wishful thinking, I guess. So, what do we do with her?”

Break her other wing and run for it was his first instinct, but Clay only sighed. “I don’t know. Wait and see, I guess. And hope our new friend ‘Sabbatha’ sticks around for a while.”

The troll made his home beneath the curtaining shroud of a mighty willow. It was dark beyond the draping eaves, though there were hanging clusters of pear-shaped fruit that gave off a queer violet glow. The troll led them on a meandering stone path between rows of tall, fragrant plants. When Matrick slipped and stumbled into one, Taino chuckled to himself. “Is dark ere, ya? Lemme getcha some shiny, fren.” He reached up to a low branch and plucked one of the glowing pods, at which point Clay realized it wasn’t any sort of fruit at all.

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